


mellow feelings, books and withering leaves

by Blepbean



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Happy Ending, I actually kinda edited this one, Lookvthis has ghibli cottagecore vibes that’s it, Love Confessions, M/M, Mako has a hard time expressing his feelings 😔😔, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, theyre kinda ooc but idc, with magic in there, wu just wants to be with him tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:08:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27190855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blepbean/pseuds/Blepbean
Summary: Mako is an orphan with Bolin, living under his grandparents house after his parents died in a house fire. His days is simple, wake up before chaos erupts and work as a bookstore clerk in his small, corner of the world. That’s until a boy comes in and ignites his world, and also accidentally opens opens a book that threatens to destroy the forest that holds deep memories for Mako.Mako notices the leaves starting to wither away. Something whirs inside him, a sinking feeling that eats away from him like a sinkhole. He feels his leg shaking, wanting to collapse and to turn into a puddle of nothingness. To not exist. To turn just into the air and nothing more. To leave behind the memories.The forest is dying. It’s dying.
Relationships: Mako/Prince Wu (Avatar)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	mellow feelings, books and withering leaves

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone omg 😌✨✨ I totally wrote this for self indulgence so I’m sorry if they’re a bit out of character I JUST WANT SOME WUKO COTTAGECORE GHIBLI VIBES OKAY

_ i knew from the start you never  _

_ liked the same anatomy. _

_ i scraped off the apology off my tongue  _

_ when i made you out to be the boy _

_ who stayed in all of my reveries, _

_ the face of my wet dreams and  _

_ i’ll spend forever apologising for keeping  _

_ you underneath my mind, i’ll fold the  _

_ words i dropped on your floor nicely,  _

_ hang them back in your closet for days  _

_ you decide to wear something pretty. _

_ -something pretty, i’m tired of being a dandelion by Zane Frederick. _

  
  
  


  
Mako lives in a small town, an orphan with his younger brother. The town fills up with older people, quiet coffee shops, vast libraries and sprawling fields of grass that you can run through. There’s also a full, vibrant forest within the outer town, where parents make stories of how it’s enchanted, and telling their kids that if they ever step a foot they’ll vanish in thin air and become a tree.

It worked for them.

Not him and for Bolin.

Because it’s their place, it’s where they wander and go through and to watch the lake ripple from the falling leaves. It’s where they take naps and talk about what happened during school, and what other vast universes would exist. A universe where magic grows wild and vast, skies filling up with flying whales. A universe where gods and titans rule the world, their footsteps rippling through the whole planet like an earthquake. A universe where people can bend the elements to their will, shaping and twisting it to what they want.

But they grow old, and the forest becomes a distant memory. Maybe it’s perhaps that Mako blames himself for setting the house on fire, the matchstick on the ground bursting into a pillar of flame. It takes paintings. The knick-knacks. The paintings. The carpet. The walls. It takes and takes until it takes their parents away. He remembers what his mother told him the day before, as they were baking Japanese milk bread, flour on her cheek with her apron on, smiling.

_“Mako,” she says, “when you find someone that you love. I want you to protect them. I want you to be there, at the end of the world, or their worst moments. Because they’ll do the same to you. That’s love. It’s leaping faith for them.”_

Mako and Bolin were her then love, them. The two brothers that always laugh and smile, filling up the room and piercing through the walls. But it’s not them anymore, something shifted after the funeral five years ago. Mako grows cold and twisted, like a hurt lion. Bolin grows quiet, but still holds the light and joy in him, just not the same as it used to be. That’s because Mako shielded him from it all.

They sleep on the same roof as their grandparents, the house always full of people and voices, not like their mother's house where it is quiet. In the kitchen plants and cookbooks overtake the benches, bowls and whisks from baking fills up the sink. The drawers are painted with a soft green, the bench made from the fallen tree a few years back, varnished and polished, taking the colour of a beautiful deep brown. The sunlight that comes through the coloured stained windows softens the overall kitchen. It looks otherworldly, magical.

He sees his grandmother there. Mako and her always rise in the early morning, just as the sun is rising and bathing everything in golden light. She hums, watering her plants near the window while the ingredients for breakfast are laid out on the bench. 

“Mako, dear,” she grazes her finger against the leaf of the plant, “where were you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t act stupid,” she says, moving onto the next plant, it’s long leaves and stems almost making it to the ground, “you were somewhere outside last night, Where?”

He put his hands into the pocket of his light brown slacks, his brown sweater vest over his white long-sleeve button-up shirt tucked into his pants, secured with a black belt. This is what he wore last night.

“I can’t tell you.”

She turns back to him, walking up to fix his hair with her gentle finger, her face built with wrinkles from all of her time spent here, “you know you’re not to blame for your mother—“

“—I know.”

“But you don’t _act_ like it.”

He sighs, closing off himself and wanting to turn small. This is what he does, digging his emotions six feet deep into the ground, where it would fester and rot. Maybe, if he imagines hard enough it’ll leave, go away. And he’ll be back in his mother’s kitchen, the big kitchen. Not like this kitchen, where everything is small and tightly packed.

“Just promise me you don’t get into any trouble,” she says, “are you staying for breakfast?”

He takes a muffin from the bowl and stuffs it into his pocket, “I can’t. I have a shift down at the store.”

“Mako—“

He looks at his watch, “running late, sorry,” he says, taking the red scarf from the door hooks, it’s his father’s scarf, the strings and wool already coming slightly undone from the ends.

Before she could say anything back he’s already out the door, eating the muffin as he walks through the garden. It’s filled with many plants and vegetables he doesn’t know, the white paint on the fence already peeling off, vines climbing up onto the fence, the colours of the garden blend into a beautiful mess. He opens the creaking fence door and he’s out. Trees form in an archway, towering over him like fingers as light in the shade of honey filters through the leaves.

He likes the quiet. Mako likes waking up before noises erupt inside their tiny home with too many people. But a part of him wants to go far, far away. Leave behind the place where the air fills up with crickets croaking, the fluttering of wings batting and the smell of food that’s everywhere, maybe from apple pie that’s sitting by the window, or perhaps the smell of fresh fruit and honey from a nearby picnic.

The inner town bustles about, buildings shaped into weird shapes with bright colours and clothes hanging from the balcony out to dry. The streets fill up with bikes and people out into the early morning with baskets out. Stalls and vendors already setting up for the morning, each one with a happy smile, some chatting to the others while others fixing up their fruits and vegetables.

The bookstore that he works at greets him with the smell of pine and orange. Curtains were already open, recently cleaned from yesterday. Books and knickknacks set up against the window. Bookshelves lined up against the walls, the wood showing signs of age from scratches and names written behind. Something fills the air when his boss lights the candle, the smell of forests mixing in with the scent of books, earthy and musky.

“I’m sorry I was—“

“—nonsense,” they say, fixing up their wired frame glasses, “don’t fret. Not a big deal.”

His boss smiles at him before they button up their grey trench coat and go back into the back room. His shifts and days drift into lousy times of staring out into the window with his head resting on his hand, staring and staring. Mako doesn’t mind this, the quiet filling up the room, sometimes staring at the floral wallpapers and antique teacups.

Soon the bookstore fills up with many people. From casuals who're looking for new arrivals. To the ones that spend way too much time inside, and they arrive at the counter with twenty books in their hands. Sometimes the odd foreign visitor comes along with grinning smiles, gushing about the quietness of the town.

This time the foreign visitor is a boy that stands with the door open for too long. The wind picks up and ruffles his black slacks, matching black polished shoes. He smooths out his tucked green turtle neck, which is under a deeper green button long sleeve shirt. His belt looks new, a brown leather one that looks expensive.

Mako picks up on how the boy’s hair goes into soft curls, and how his green eyes match his outfit, reminding him of the forest that he goes to every night. And his skin, it’s a smooth, soft, gorgeous colour of brown. It reminds him of his father’s wooden carvings, soft animals that he has displayed.

The boy smiles, clutching his books to his chest, “hi—“

“—Welcome to Bastion’s bookstore, how can we help you,” he says in his monotone voice.

“That’s no way to greet a customer,” the boy says, smiling, his face lighting up like summer days out on the beach by the pier, but it’s autumn right now, “I thought you would greet me with… warm English tea and book recommendations from Jane Austen.”

“We do have Pride and Prejudice in stock—“

“—I’m not interested in that, I find it interesting to analyse but boring to read for fun—“

“—We have books like The State of Us—“

“—not that racist rip off. God no,” he chuckles, his giggle filling up the room like he doesn’t care, he holds himself with such confidence that Mako wants, “no Shaun, political opinions _can_ be a factor into relationships. Especially if the character’s mother is running president and wants to ban people simply because they’re transgender, while not even changing her opinion at the end of the book I mean—“

Usually, he’ll be filled with a wave of quiet anger, annoyance would thrum through his veins and he’ll grip the counter hard enough his knuckles would go white. He remembers getting into fights during school, either from fending off Bolin from bullies or school fights. He’ll come back home to his grandmother’s house with bruised knuckles, and he’ll just hold it until he reaches his room and burst into tears.

But for him, this _boy_. Something is different. 

Mako turns on the radio, crackling as the gentle notes of the piano fill the room while Wu looks through the bookshelves, humming. He’s not the foreign visitors that stare in awe or brags about their city. He examines quietly, fingers brushing the spine of the books. Mako leans in closer, watching him pick up a book, his finger gently flipping through the pages. He treats it with care like it’s _alive_.

And it sort of is. He remembers his mother telling him stories from books, words coming alive with a spell of a sentence or two, turning into vivid worlds and enchanting characters. Words begin to spin into worlds that feel _alive._

He comes to the counter with just a single book. In the lighting, the cover is a vibrant yellow, with dandelions being flown into the distance.

“ _I’m tired of being a dandelion,_ ” Mako reads out.

“I was looking all over for it,” he says, “I need a book to analyse for my finals in uni, one of my favourite poems is in there titled _‘something_ _pretty_ ’.”

He’s an English major who reads poetry.

Something in him feels like he should roll his eyes, think of a joke about the boy being pretentious. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he takes the money and puts it into the cashier with more care than usual. And when the boy leaves and the ringing from the door announcing that he leaves fades into nothingness, a tugging feeling in him swirls. It’s strange. This _feeling._ He’s not good at feelings. He’s not good at emotions. He ruined two perfectly good relationships with his ex-girlfriends Asami and Korra back in the day, the ashes turning into a pity friendship as he watches the two of them pack their bags and take a vacation around the world.

And now he’s left behind.

He’s not good at expressing feelings. He didn’t have time to. Mako was too busy protecting his brother. It’s something strange, an undertow of warmth that you get from warm meals on a cloudy day. And he thinks back to those and the way he talked.

He plays with his red scarf in the rest of his shift.

——

  
  


“Mako,” Bolin says next to him, filling up with so many people and chatter. The sound of cutlery and plates moving fills the air, blending in with the warmth emanating from the food.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, I just wanted to say hi.”

“What you should be saying is hi to that boy that was staring at you—“

“—he doesn’t like me!”

Mako laughs, picking up his chopsticks to swirl the bowl of noodles in front of him. He didn’t mind the loudness of the dinners as long Bolin is there to ground him.

“Dude, he likes you,” Mako says, “what’s that boy's name?”

“Wei.”

“Wei,” Mako repeats, staring out into the dishes with the steam coming out from them, bowls of fish soup and rice filling up the table, alongside spicy tofu soups, “you should go on a date with him.”

“He _doesn’t_ like me!”

“But do _you_ like him?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Oh, it _definitely_ is. I can’t wait to see the two of you on the aisle on your wedding night—“

And this, this is how their dinner goes. This is the only time Mako goes to eat with everyone and spends time with everyone. He can put up with the noises that sometimes get to his head because Bolin is here. Back at their Mother’s house, it wasn’t like this. Everything was quiet. Guess everything changes.

That night he sneaks into the forest again, tall grass prickling against his clothes. It doesn’t take long to find himself within the forest, the moonlight bathing everything in a silvery light. When he steps out into the clearing he sees the lake lit up by the moon, it’s still clear that he can reach the bottom of it.

It reflects the moon in ripples. He sits down onto the ground and lights matches, the heat covering his face with a soft yellow-orange hue like sunlight, before tossing it into the water. He remembers this being the lake that his dad and mother met at, and they said something about it being so.. ‘magical’.

But there’s nothing magical about it. All he’s doing is conjuring phantom memories of them each time he lights up a match, having to tell himself that the soft warmth the match glows is lying, that fire burns and takes and takes, greeding and hungering for more. It’s evil.

Fire isn’t the soft warmth that comes from fireplaces. It’s an entire inferno that takes and takes. He tosses the match into the lake, the fire hissing as the match sinks to the very bottom.

  
  


——

  
  


Mako took more care into his outfit, smoothing out the wrinkles over his blue overalls, ironing out his red turtleneck. He even fixes the loose ends of his red scarf, threading the wool strings with his needle. He gets his good pair of black leather shoes to his shift. Maybe it’s the hope in him of wanting to see that _boy_ again, he doesn’t know why he wants to see him again.

And here he is, the bell filling up the air. It’s like his parents are here again, ringing the bell to get him and Bolin inside for dinner. The boy fixes the creases on his baggy denim jeans, an oversized green sweater swallowing him whole. He looks a little bit sleepy, a little messy with his curls like lazy clouds.

Mako forgets how to breathe.

_This isn’t like him, he’s the brooding Mako, the one that has a temper of a short fuse. He isn’t--_

“Sorry if I look like a mess,” the boy says, “I was studying,” he gestures to the books in his hands.

“I can brew you some tea, if you want.” Mako offers, putting his hands into his pockets.

“It’s fine, really,” he smiles, “really buddy, pal. It’s fine. I already drank some coffee to get my bearings,” he moves towards the bookshelves, then his eyes move towards the antiques, the shiny china sets out for decorations. Mako watches him move, taking out books and rambling to himself.

  
It feels like his breathing is too loud, or he feels stupid standing here. Mako wants to know him, like _really_ know him. He wants to see the boy in a different light, maybe out of the bookstore and to look at everything through rose-tinted glasses. To see him in a field of grass, blankets laid beneath him while they lazily snack on fruits and their voices are nothing more than white noise to each other.

But something takes him back, making him push back. He’s _terrified_ of slowly unravelling himself, to let someone in without himself breaking. The last time he did this, he ruined two relationships. And those memories are now nothing more than snapshots of a happier time from mere strangers. _They’re_ strangers now, going about their life.

And now here he is, stuck behind.

“I’ve never asked what your name is,” the boy says, picking up a book, flicking through the pages.

“It’s Mako.”  
  
“Ma-ko,” he says, sounding it out, letting it roll out of his tongue, to let it come naturally like breathing, “Ma-ko,” he says again. 

“What’s yours?”

“Wu,” he says, putting the book back, he takes another one, his finger running through the grooves of the cover of the book. It’s a book that Mako hasn’t seen before. When he opens it a gust of wind comes out of nowhere, a blue glow emanates from the pages as it flicks through each one, quickly shifting to different colours. It crackles and bubbles, spitting out particles that look like it’s been taken out from the stars itself.

“What’s happening?” Wu says, Mako quickly vaults over the counter. But he stops.

Wu starts to float. His face is lit up with different coloured lights like fireworks, “take your hand off the book!”

“I can’t!” He yells, keeping it away from his face, “it’s like... Stuck.”

“Stuck?

The book starts to go ecstatic, spewing out more and more particles, dissipating when it touches the wooden floor. Mako takes a couple of steps back, nearly letting the antiques fall behind him. Air fills up with a hissing noise, then being replaced with a hum. Within a second everything goes to halt, the air going still.

Then Wu, who’s four feet off the ground drops the book, looking slightly singed. He manages to catch Wu before he hits the ground. He groans, eyes fluttering open. Those eyes… so vibrant, saturated from the colours of the forests.

“Are you okay? Are you alright?”

Wu responds by bringing him into a rib-crushing hug. His head digging into the crook of his shoulder, he gets a whiff of his hair, the scent of a sharp perfume that reminds him of his mother, like pine and berries. If he could, he would let his hands run through the curls of his hair, tuck the hair behind his hair and look him in his eyes.

He doesn’t.

“That was... _Terrifying_.”

Beside them, the pages of the books are wordless, plain. Except for the first page. It says:

_The forests hold onto things that the two of you desperately hold onto, it does not do you good, keep holding on and it’ll rot and fester, and the forest will go down with you._

  
  


——

  
  


He meets Wu on the pier, his back turned while his feet dangle from the edge. Mako doesn’t go here often in the beach, too full of peaceful memories turned sour, rotted like spoiled meat. The wood creaks underneath him, catching glimpses of the clear water through the wood. He thinks of how the smell of fish and salt in the air is weaker than before, or how the sun outlines Wu in a golden haze.

“You wanted to meet me?” He mumbles. His body doesn’t take a step forward like Wu is something on his level, and he can’t bear to cross or come close to him. 

“Come, sit with me.”

“I have to go back to the bookstore—”

“—it won’t take long, I’m just… scared from that book and what happened.”

  
He takes a step. Then another. Then he’s sitting next to Wu, staring at the water beneath him, a crystal clear blue that reflects the golden sun. He sees his eyes in the water, his tempered eyes shine a colour of topaz. His mother told him it looked like the sun, the warmth from a fireplace that crackles within winter nights and while shining like liquid gold.

He doesn’t believe that anymore... Fire is evil.

Wu keeps reading the line on the book over and over again, mumbling something underneath his breath, after a few moments of silence Wu says, “what do you make of this line?’

“I don’t know, it’s probably nothing.”

“Mako, buddy. I was floating off the ground while colour exploded from the book,” he hums, flicking through the empty pages, “it _has_ to be something. I mean it mentioned things from the forest and other stuff.”

Mako watches him knit his eyebrows together, his skin sun-kissed by the sun. Skin turning into the colour of honey, a sheen of bronze. His eyes shift into something like soft moss, the corners of his lips twitching. He can see it now, Wu is the type of person who can naturally attract people, turning heads to get their attention, and he fills up the room whenever he walks into spaces.

They’re polar opposites. Like fire is to a forest.

“What’s something that rots and festers?” Wu asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Come on buddy, you _have_ to help me out here.”

“Meat?”

“Meat… yeah meat, maybe milk too. Any food really—”

“—Can you just do this without me?”

His voice booms and echoes, filling up space between them. Wu looks at him like Bolin did after the house burned down, full of fear. He always got his temper from his mother. 

He looks down, staring at the lines of his palm, “sorry.”

“It’s fine, really,” Wu puts the book beside him, staring out into the vast seas where the fishermen is coming back home from days worth of fishing, their boats looking tiny in the distance, “I shouldn’t be bothering you with this.”  
  
He takes the book with him. 

He stands up.

And something in Mako gets a hold of him and he’s holding Wu by the wrist, “stay,” he breathes out, “ _please_ ,” he says it sincerely, as he means it as he did with Korra and Asami, sorries spilling out of his lips and drowning him. He doesn’t want him to leave, to turn into phantom memories like them.

He’s… different.

And Wu does, he sits back down again, crossing his legs and sighing.

“What do you do around here?” Wu breathes out.

“Wake up. Eat. Work in the bookstore. Eat. Go to sleep.”

“That’s it?” Wu says, “I thought you would be wandering around the town. It’s so… pretty and quiet. I want to move here.”

“Why don’t you stay here?” Mako says, suddenly wanting to take back those words.

“I can’t,” Wu mumbles, tone growing quiet. A sudden gust of wind opens the book beside him, turning the pages as it begins to emanate a soft glow of blue. Wu panics, reaching out to touch the page before Mako stops him. 

They lock eyes, and Mako sees colour spreading through Wu’s cheeks.

The book crackles before it settles. Another line appears on the page, this time saying:

_The forest is in danger_

  
  


——

  
  


They run to the forest, Wu in front of him while Mako tells him where to go. He realises that Wu is holding his hand tightly, he can feel it shaking. They run through stalls and people, mums doing last-minute shopping for dinner, bikers who tell them to watch where they’re going. The wind behind their backs, Mako pants and pants while his red scarf billows in the wind.

_The forest is in danger_.

The forest holds the lake where he goes to. It’s full of peaceful, soft memories that haven't been tainted with guilt. He doesn’t want it to go away, fade into a pile of ash and dust. The buildings and footpaths slowly turn into the grass that reaches to their waist, and where they arrive in front of the forest—

—Mako notices the leaves starting to wither away. Something whirs inside him, a sinking feeling that eats away from him like a sinkhole. He feels his leg shaking, wanting to collapse and to turn into a puddle of nothingness. To not exist. To turn just into the air and nothing more. To leave behind the memories.

The forest is dying. It’s _dying_.

  
  


—

  
  


They go into Wu’s room. The scent of earth and paper fills the room, alongside the sweet smell of tea and fruits. His room fills and fills with plants and books, of walls with paintings of forests, and cottages sitting on top of a hill. Even with the sundown and night taking over, the lights and Wu’s voice mumbling is enough to fill the room with warmth.

There’s a lot of things in here that Mako notices when he sits down on Wu’s bed, the jewellery that’s stashed away in a tiny chest, real gold and diamonds that could sell for riches. Fantasy books sitting on his bed, wrinkling the blankets. Notebooks scattered across the floor, filling up with words analysing stories and themes that Mako can’t wrap his head around. The wallpaper is filled up with floral patterns. The light above them flickers every once in a while.

Wu sits on the desk, slumped over the book open while he has a stack of other books full of mythology. From cultures, all the way from the east, distant lands that have snowy mountains reach the clouds. Some even tell stories of ancient gods, and two lovers whose downfall was wars and pride.

His voice fills the air with mumblings, flipping through pages, trying to find curses and stories that revolve around withering forests and things that ‘rot. Beside him a warm drink with the colour of beige, steam swirling from it. It tastes of honey and cinnamon, the warm milk heating him from the inside. 

“Wu?”

“Yes?” He stops flipping through five different books and looks at him.

“Why are you here staying here?” He asks, “if… if you can’t even _stay_.”

“I don’t want to have to go,” Wu mumbles, getting up to get more books from his bookshelves, “I want to stay here, with you.”

  
“With me?”

“Yes, with you. I haven’t felt more like myself with someone like _you_ before,” Wu sighs, “if only a guy like me could just disappear from the face of the earth.”

Mako presses just a little bit more, “why?”

“I’m supposed to be a politician, at least that’s what my family expects,” he flips through the pages of his book, “I mean like family traditions and all, it’s just so… boring? You know Mako, it kind of reminds me of old fashion monarchs and kings and queens. Having to follow in step with your mother to become an old fashioned politician is so boring, I’ll rather spend my days here, with you.”

“Why me?” 

“I don’t know…”

  
They fall into a soft silence, Wu drops off more books at his desk. He props up his chair and drags it close to Mako, “so tell me, Mako, why don’t I know anything about you?”

“Because you don’t ask—”

“—and I’m asking now,” Wu drags himself closer to him, “what are you like? What’s your favourite food? Favourite colour? Do you have a special lady in your life—”

“—No I don’t why are you even asking me that question?”

Out of the corner of his eyes, the book sputters a soft glow of blue. Not erratic or explosive but a baby blue. Mako always wanted blue eyes, not like his eyes that remind him of pillars of flame and destruction. He wanted blue eyes deep like the oceans that fishermen traverse, carrying softness and water, of rain that comes and dampens the earth, feeding the plants.

He doesn’t want his eyes, if he could, he would trade it for the colour of the soft glow of the book. Not like his tangerine eyes that sparks of flame.

Wu notices the shift in his eyes too, then the book. When Mako gets up, Wu’s there behind him, feeling his soft curls of hair on the crook of his shoulders. When he expects another line of words to appear, instead the line from before fades, words shifting into nothingness. Then the book flips through the first page, the line from before still staying.

_The forests hold onto things that the two of you desperately hold onto, it does not do you good, keep holding on and it’ll rot and fester, and the forest will go down with you._

Wu squints his eyes, mumbling, “what on earth is happening?”

  
  


—

  
  


When he gets home, his grandmother saved food for him on the table. A bowl of rice and meat, with sunnyside eggs sitting there, waiting for him. 

  
“Sorry, the customers at the bookstore held me up.”

She laughs at him, “don’t worry,” she says, walking towards the windows to draw the curtains down, “it must’ve been very busy, yes?”

  
“Yes…”

She hums something, before saying, “you’re different today, Mako.”

“What do you mean?” He hands his red scarf up on the door rack.

“You’re… happier,” she says, “did you meet someone?”

_Him_ , he thinks. But he doesn’t say those words, instead, he says, “no, I didn’t meet anyone.”

She looks at him for a moment, before sighing, “go, eat.”

He doesn’t go to the forest that night.

He goes to sleep just a little earlier than he expects. That night, he dreams of _him_. The two of them wander through the forest, their laughter filling the air and their joy so bright that it overtakes the sun shining down on them. He could feel the grass underneath him, and the forest itself feels like it was a breathing, living creature. He dreams of the two of them, and Wu’s eyes bearing down like he’s speaking without uttering a single word.

He wakes up with his cheeks red that morning

  
  


——

  
  


He was almost late to meet Wu that morning, he quickly threw on light blue denim jeans, tucking in his white button-up shirt and plain red sweater, popping his collar through as he almost tumbles out of his door, his hair messy. He catches a glimpse of his grandmother cutting up vegetables for breakfast while he puts on his socks, taking an apple from the basket while he puts on his shoes, tapping it before moving onto the next.

“Mako—”

“—Sorry, I gotta go.”

And he takes the red scarf from the door and runs, his hair messy, being ruffled from the wind on his face. He was supposed to be near the forest ages ago, will he be still there? Waiting for him? Standing for him until he shows up. He feels himself cry, he shouldn’t be crying. Mako is stupid for crying.

“Mako!” He hears someone yell across the street when he gets to the town. Mako wipes the tears from his eyes.

And he sees him, across the street. The wind ruffles his baggy, white sweater, his green pants matching the colour of his eyes, along with his ivory green bucket hat. It’s like the air is being stolen from his lungs, it’s gone now. He forgets how to breathe.

He crosses the street carelessly, luckily not being hit by one of the bikers. He smiles, carrying the book that they were trying to piece together last night. Wu puts his other hand into his pockets and gets close to him, on his toes while he stares into his eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking at your eyes,” he says casually. A part of Mako wants to step away, but he doesn’t. He’s transfixed but how Wu’s eyes shift, studying him, “they’re like… fire.”

_Like fire._

“I don’t like the colour of my eyes.”

“Well I’ll like them for you,” he mumbles, he steps away from him, “let's go,” Wu takes his hand and he drags him away. He lets himself get dragged away, Wu’s rambling filling the space between them. Running through people, zigzagging their way through the town folks, with baskets in their hands, shopping for food.

When the ground slowly turns into gravel and then into grass they break apart, Mako not feeling that warmth from him. They just into the outskirts of the forest, the leaves already withering away into the colour of tar as it dries, falling to the ground then turning into ash. 

“All this time I’ve been looking through mythology and from different cultures when I _didn’t_ need to,” Wu says, sitting down on the ground beneath a tree, the leaves still flush of green, “the book is referring to the things that we’ve been holding onto, it’s kind of like _faith_ , that the both of us are holding onto something—”

“—This is ridiculous—”

“It’s not ridiculous, Mako!” He says, he pats the soft grass next to him, “Come, sit.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Mako…”

Silence.

“Fine,” he sits down next to him, wiping away imaginary dust from his jeans, “you’re ridiculous.”

“So what are _you_ holding onto?” Wu asks, flipping through the pages, humming.

_Too many things_ , he says. And if he speaks into existence, it’ll wince, opening barely stitched wounds and the heartache will start up again. He thinks of the fire, and his parents. He thinks of matches, and how he always liked to play with them. Mako thinks of Korra and Asami, and he thinks of the nights he goes to the lake, wishing for whatever god to swap with his mother and father. 

“Mako?” His tone is soft, just like his mother’s. 

Mako shifts his position, crossing his leg underneath him and pulling the grass underneath. Around them, more leaves start to wither away. He can’t open these wounds, it’s too much.

“I’ll go first…” Wu says, clearing his throat as he takes both of Mako’s hands into his, the warmth back up again, “I blame myself for the death of my great-aunt. I didn’t like her. No one did. She was a horrible politician, and I was supposed to follow in my footsteps. So I ran away and to become an English major,” he looks up at Mako, locking eyes, holding each other’s gaze, “sometimes it’s like she’s still there, haunting me.”

“Haunting you?”

“Yeah… it’s like she’s haunting me,” Wu holds onto him tighter, “like she’s watching me.”

The book between them glows a soft, blue light.

“Okay, your turn.”

The wind picks up, when Mako looks up more and more leaves start to wither. Around them heat starts to prickle up against his neck, growing hotter and hotter. He can’t do this, he’ll keep the wounds closed if he has to. It eats and eats away at him, taking everything in its path.

Just like the fire.

“I can’t do this,” Mako mumbles, “I-I have to go—”

“Wait—”

He runs away before Wu could get to him. 

  
  


—

  
  


He comes back into the forest late at night, making his way through the thick forest. The moonlight lights everything up in her silver light, making everything glow. But the withering leaves keep spreading, leaving a sickly tar behind him that bubbles. The forest used to be full of life like it’s breathing underneath him. A whole creature, with trees high enough that it towers over him, sunlight barely shining through the canopy. Creatures and the sound of the flapping of birds, or the calls from the animals would fill the air.

But it’s silent. It’s like the forest is already dead, and it’s just waiting to be taken away.

He makes his way to the lake where he usually goes, the moonlight gives it a glow of silver. Mako sits down onto the ground, striking a match as he throws it into the lake. It hisses, the last of the smoke swirling into the air as it sinks to the very bottom. If he could, he would swap places with his mother and father, just turning into nothingness, something like air.

He hears the shuffling behind him, the breaking of branches. When he turns around Wu is there, holding a lantern with the candle inside flickering. The heat gives him a smooth hue of reds and yellows, making his eyes glow a green forest.

“What are you doing here? Wu, you shouldn’t—”

He’s interrupted with a tight hug, Wu digging himself into the crook of his shoulder, like he’s trying to get a hold of him before Mako withering away like the leaves, and dissipates into thin air.

“I thought that you would be _dead_ , that you’ll… wither away like the leaves,” Wu says, “why did you run away?”

“I… was scared.”

Terrified, actually. Don’t let the wounds open, let it rot and fester under the bandages. Then he’ll be taken away by the forest, and he’ll be like air. But something in him thrums, and when he buries his head into Wu’s hair that smells of fruits, he gets flashes of laughter and dances in the kitchen of the house filling up with books about flying castles, of worlds far, far away from here.

Something in him thrums, like warmth. Not like the inferno, of flames that takes and takes and takes. It’s more of the soft warmth, like summer suns, of the warmth from homemade foods, from the warmth from another body, the warmth from laughing along with someone.

Mako takes the book from Wu’s other hand, “me and my brother are orphans,” he says, he takes Wu’s lantern as well, when they pull apart, “I set the house on fire from playing with matches, and our parents saved us,” he opens the lantern.

“Mako what are you doing?”

“And sometimes I can still see them,” he opens the glass of the lantern, taking the candle within his hands, “and I blame myself for what happened to them. That’s when I lost my childhood. I couldn’t love someone properly,” the book glows a soft blue hue, Mako smiles as it puts it over the candle, “like Korra and Asami.”

Wu stares and stares at him, taking a few steps back. He notices the wither slowly growing faster and faster. 

The book catches on fire, paper turning into black then into nothingness. The smell of earth and paper fills the space between us, ash too. It burns bright, and he’s reminded of the flame that burned down his house, the kitchen that was full of soft laughter and his mother’s humming.

It didn’t work.

The wither is still creeping upon them.

“Mako?”

The flame turns into a pillar that separates both of them.

“Why isn’t it working Wu?”

“I don’t know? You have to get out of here!”

“I’m not leaving you!’

“Mako—”

“It’s because I love you!”

_His mind turns back to that mine when he muttered those words to Korra, it turned into messy relationships and turmoil inside him, into tears and breakups and then... They’re gone._

That’s not what’s happening right now.

Everything stops, the wither and the flame. But the flame, it turns into something else. Something that comes from the centre of a hearth, like life, like _magic_ , not like the thing that takes and takes, not like the fire that greeds. It crackles and sputters, before it pulses, scattering through the forest floor and driving away from the wither. The book turns into ash, the wind picking it up and scattering it throughout the forest.

“You love me?” 

  
Mako looks at him, tears filling up his eyes and pouring over. Within a second he feels Wu against him, digging himself further into his chest. He feels himself laugh, a genuine one that fills up space between them, one that’s unguarded.

“Don’t leave, Wu. You can stay here in the town and we—”

He’s cut off with a gentle kiss.

Their lips land clumsily against each other, tasting of salt from the tears that remind him of the beach, but he also tastes of honey as well. It’s a giddy kiss, silly, like bodies of bees, round and fat, full of pollen. Mako’s body is flush of warmth, and he thinks that this is a time of the fire that he likes, soft, like something from the hearth.

Like magic.

And when they pull apart he whispers sweet nothings, his head on Wu’s crook of his shoulder this time. He thinks that maybe he can get used to this, him and Wu. Maybe he can like the colour of his eyes, not only holding a living hearth but a tint of gold, like it’s been stolen from the sun itself. He thinks, that he can let go. He thinks, he can love Wu forever. He thinks, he doesn’t want to become air any longer.

Instead, he wants to become like fire, a hearth, something that’s a living and breathing thing.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
